Where Do We Begin
by NortheasternWind
Summary: Death calls a young Strife out of training for a very special occasion, and three become four.


Now, in my headcanon the Firstborn are unbegotten (came into existence as adults), the Horsemen aren't actually related, and the nephilim choose their names at adulthood, but... baby horsemen (and Death, who at this point I can't imagine as anything other than full-grown). Being a family together. Come on. I've had this written and posted elsewhere for a while, but I shrugged and decided to post it here too. Inspired by the first scene in Sleepy's Angelus Bellum, which also depicts baby War birth. Similarities to Ronald Welch's _Bowman of Crecy_ entirely intentional because I couldn't think of anything else for Strife to be doing. Sorry Ronald Welch!

What's that? Where are their parents? We just don't know.

 **Where Do We Begin**

Strife's arm burned. He had been holding this bow up for what must have been an hour, standing at attention with his arm stretched painfully to its full length. At either side of him stood the other children who had chosen the same weapon, each holding a bow cut to their height. This he knew only because he remembered falling in line with them; he didn't dare shift his gaze from the target at the end of the range.

Not a single one of them had actually drawn a bow yet. Endurance, their betters said, was one of their greatest assets in a battle, and the young nephilim were taught to hold a bow at the ready without complaint before they ever touched an arrow.

"You're slouching," a voice above him said.

 _Thwack!_ The blow came down about his shins, bare in the heat, and Strife instantly straightened his back with tears in his eyes. Damn but that switch hurt, and nothing could teach him a proper stance like the threat of pain.

"Better," the voice said gruffly.

Strife hated training. Understanding the necessity didn't make it hurt less.

Someone must have been listening to his thoughts, because it was not much later when the instructor's voice called out to him again.

"Strife!"

He flinched, and craned his head toward the voice as much as he could, not dropping his aching arm. But the dread in his heart burned away at the sight of a tall, pale figure standing next to his instructor.

"You're dismissed," the elder said, without further elaboration.

Strife let his arm fall with a breathless sigh of relief, and turned just in time to catch the boy next to him hiding a jealous grimace. Instantly he ached to give the other an answering look of sympathy, but felt keenly the weight of two older gazes upon him, and fled silently to his brother's side instead.

"Come," Death said, and without so much as a nod to Strife's instructor they were off.

"Thank you," Strife said as soon as they were out of earshot.

Death snorted. "Believe me, I didn't rescue you for your benefit. I know it seems pointless, but as a ranger you're going to be doing a lot of standing around holding up a bow."

"Who even uses bows?" Strife grumbled. "All of the adults use guns. Why can't they train us using those?"

"Because they're dangerous, and require a respect that few possess at your age. You can learn endurance just the same with a bow."

Strife sneered. "You hold a bow in your weak hand. You hold a gun in your strong hand. That doesn't make any sense."

"If you switch to a gun you're welcome to wield something else in your strong hand."

"I'd rather use my strong hand for my gun," Strife muttered under his breath. But the reason for their conversation came back to him, and he looked up at his brother with a frown. "Where are we going? It must be important if you called me out of training."

He thought he saw a muscle clench beneath his brother's mask, but Death's answer came so easily Strife forgot all about it. "There's a tiny someone who wants to meet you."

Understanding bloomed in Strife's chest. "Really?! You mean–"

"They're probably sleeping by now, but yes, we have a new addition to the family. Don't get too excited," he added with amusement, as Strife prepared to do just that.

The nephilim had only just settled into their encampment on this world, and so their home was little more than a set of tents to protect them from the elements. With a sure step Death led him to the one set aside for this exact purpose, and dutifully Strife followed him inside.

"Their name is War," little Fury said imperiously, and without preamble.

Seeing no need to make herself comfortable, Fury sat cross-legged upon the bare grass, holding in her arms a bundle of deep red blankets.

"Says who?"

"Says me."

"You can't just name them all by yourself!"

"War will be the biggest and strongest of us all," Fury said.

"Do you remember how to hold a baby?" Death asked, sensing and cutting off Strife's retort. "It's been a while for you."

Sensing her turn was over, Fury obediently released War to their eldest brother's care, and Strife watched as a small, ruddy hand reached up toward Death's mask.

"Yes," Strife said. "I remember."

Death cradled the babe in his arms a moment longer, his strong shoulders softened in a way Strife had seen only once before: when Fury had been that small, only a baby entirely dependent upon them. Strife reached out and, arranging his arms to prove he did indeed remember, took War from his older brother.

War was a tiny thing, a pale face swaddled in a sea of red. Small wisps of silver hair lined bright blue eyes— eyes that immediately burst into tears upon being removed from faces they recognized.

"Already has an attitude problem," Strife muttered.

"You poor, forbearing older brother," Death said dully. "I can't imagine what that's like."

Strife ignored him, frowning as he drank in his new sibling's face. As he had seen his sister's claws, he saw in his mind's eye a broad, powerful form, and he knew that Fury was right.

"Hello," he said. "You're much less wrinkly than our sister was."

"You're mean."

"I could make you my slave for a century with all the blackmail material you gave me as a baby," Death warned, entirely without reprimand. "You weren't so handsome yourself."

"Were my cheeks that chubby as a baby?" Fury asked.

"Your cheeks are still chubby."

"You're so mean! Why can't you say something nice for a change?"

"I only said the truth! You're the one who chose to take offe–"

War whined, unhappy with the noise and the lack of attention, and immediately Strife cut himself off to look down in alarm, setting himself to rubbing the baby's cheek. Fury, apparently already used to it, scooted forward and offered her finger, which the tiny nephilim happily grabbed and stuffed into its mouth.

"Did you wash your hands?"

"Shut up."

Death tilted his head in a manner that strongly suggested he was rolling his eyes. "If War does grow up to have an attitude problem, I'll know exactly who to blame."

The newborn, taken with its new toy, was entirely oblivious to the conversation going on above it, and snuggled contently into Strife's hold. Strife felt a new warmth take root in his heart despite himself, and held his newest sibling a little closer.

"My name is Strife," he announced to the baby.

War actually stopped sucking on Fury's finger just to laugh at him, eyes scrunched up in innocent joy.

Strife sighed. Oh well. At least he'd still be taller for a while yet.


End file.
